The Biofab War (27 page)

Have a good look,
you bastards, he thought. I’ve come to save you from slimy green bugs and worse.

“Major Harrison.”

A short, bald UC officer in black fatigues and combat boots was coming through the waiting area, a .45 holstered to the webbed belt around his waist, two troopers behind him. “Captain Grady, sir,” said the older man, saluting. “Garrison Adjutant. Welcome to Boston, Major.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said John, returning the salute. A trooper took his bag.

“We have transport waiting,” said Grady. “The Hospital’s ten minutes by chopper.”

“The Hospital?” said John as Grady led the way toward a “Restricted Access” door.

The captain smiled—the thin smile John came to associate with Terra Two. “They built headquarters on a big hill, over in Roxbury. There was a hospital there once.”

The chopper looked like a Vietnam-vintage Huey to John, a black-painted troop carrier complete with helmeted door gunner. Engines roaring, it swept them up and out over the harbor, skirting the brightly lit shore for a few minutes, then turning inland as the city lights vanished.

Holding a safety strap, John stood behind the gunner, ignoring the damp chill wind knifing through the door cracks. Stars above, dark ground below—he saw little else through the closed Plexiglas gun port. Once, far off, there was a glimmer of light, quickly gone.

He gripped the safety strap as the helicopter banked suddenly, dropping toward the brilliantly lit helipad that had flared to life below. The helipad topped an unlit, sprawling structure of uncertain shape, its outline twisting into surreal shadow beyond the landing lights. As they touched down, John saw other Huey-like choppers to one side, and smaller, deadly looking gunships to the other.

“The Hospital,” said Grady as they touched down.

Outside, the lights went off, dying to a sullen glow for a few seconds, then vanishing. “Don’t want to draw fire,” explained the UC officer. The gunner swung the door wide as the rotors died.

“Here.” Grady handed John a black helmet with an equally dark visor. You use starhelms in CIB, Major?” he asked, pulling one on.

“Never used one,” said John. Imitating Grady, he fastened the helmet and dropped the visor.

The Huey’s dark interior resolved into the phosphorescent hues of infrared—Captain Grady and his squad were now a Scotarish green.

“They’re finicky. Jungle maintenance would probably be a bitch,” said Grady, making the small jump onto the concrete. “We have elevators. Follow me, please.”

Troopers patrolled the roof, green-and-red from a distance, green closer up. The walls were sandbagged, topped with razor wire, and interspaced by tarpaulined machine guns and mortars. At the far end of the roof, four sleek surface-to-air missiles pointed skyward. Walking behind Grady, John saw a tier of circling radar dishes, set atop a square concrete mast above the elevators.

An elevator was waiting, dark inside except for the control panel. As the door shut, the light came on. The two men removed their starhelms.

“UC doesn’t have any friends in the neighborhood, does it?” said John.

“About as many as CIB has in Mexico,” said Grady as the elevator descended. “We’re in a war here, too, whatever Frederick wants to call it.” The elevator stopped, doors opening silently. “BOQ level,” said the captain. “You’ll be quartered here.”

John squinted as they stepped into the long white hallway. The light was harsh—more fluorescents and latex-painted walls, he saw.

Grady led him along the deserted hallway to a tan door marked “Petersen” by a stenciled placard. “Here you are,” said Grady, slipping the placard out of its holder.

“What about Petersen?” asked John as Grady turned on the lights. It was a small room, just a maple bed with matching dresser, black footlocker and a small armchair. The walls were white, the floor brown.

“Captain Petersen was our last G2,” said Grady, setting Harrison’s bag on the footlocker. “Against orders he went to parley with one of the ganger chiefs. Some of him came back in a poncho.”

“Can I do anything else for you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Colonel Aldridge expects you at oh-eight hundred tomorrow, Major—level five, turn right. Office with the flags out front. Officers’ mess is level three—just follow the herd.”

“I will. Thank you, Captain.”

“Good night,” said Grady, pulling the door shut. His footsteps receded down the hall.

On the whole
, thought John, slipping into the too-hard bed,
I’d rather be with Zahava, in that little villa near Caesarea.

He dreamed of reporting to the CO’s office, where a long line of John Harrisons waited, each dressed as a UC major. An argument broke out as to who was the real John Harrison—an argument growing louder until the office flew open and Guan-Sharick-as-blonde stepped out, wearing a UC colonel’s uniform. The Scotar looked at them, then threw back its head and laughed.

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